Stradlater's Mistake
by mrsDEC
Summary: Sometimes the hotshots don't win... Oneshot. How Stradlater's life would be in modern times. M for implications of adult themes


"Oh no… please, please."

We were in the back of his car. He was being pretty sweet and all, but I knew what he wanted and that I wasn't gonna give it to him. He kept at it though, kissing me with his hands all over. I wouldn't let him go any further, 'cause I didn't want my friends thinking I was a _slut_ or anything.

But then, he kept pushing, and he wouldn't stop or leave me alone when I asked, and I just got so sick of it I stopped resisting. And he kept going.

And then, it was too late.

He never called. He never texted. He wouldn't even _glance_ at me in the hallways.

After about three weeks, I knew something was wrong with me. I was feeling fat, and emotional, and I got sick a couple of times. That's when I realized.

I cried. I begged. I prayed for the universe to spare me.

But it didn't.

"Stella, darling, that shirt seems to be getting a little… tight. Have you been overeating again? Soon you'll be a size six! Please go find something more appropriate, dear." My mother cared so much about my "image" and its affect on the family, it was scary.

It seemed like that was the case with everyone's parents. As a result, our high school was full of impeccably dressed teenagers with the latest piece of technology and a wad of their parents' money in their pockets.

It was disgusting, really.

Dylan's parents were the worst. I knew because our parents played tennis together at the country club every Sunday afternoon, and my mother loved to gossip, particularly with me. Mr. and Mrs. Stradlater felt especially worried about the family image, which is why I was terrified to tell him about my (and consequently his) … predicament.

The Stradlaters were California-chic and totally loaded. Dylan had inherited his mother's intelligence and her extreme blondness, and his father's surfer-boy good looks and broad-shouldered, manly man attitude. He was gorgeous, and had every girl in the school falling all over him in a sick sort of way. He took advantage of it too, leading every other guy in the school to revere him as a god. He was a senior.

It had been like two months since that night, and I was starting to have trouble finding things that didn't make it look like I had gained weight.

I decided to tell Dylan before it got any _more_ noticeable, and the rumors started flying.

The next day, I found him in the cafeteria, his jock disciples and giggling whores surrounding him. I took a deep breath and marched over. He was just insufferable.

"Dylan, I need to talk to you."

He smirked at his surrounding posse before replying. "Back for more, Bella? It took you long enough…" The posse snickered, and I rolled my eyes and pulled him aside.

"My _name_ is Stella, and this is serious, okay? Cut it out."

"What is it, babe? You know, my parents just bought me a new Mercedes… maybe we could take it for a drive up to the beach and—"

"Dylan—"

"—recreate that night—"

"Dylan, I'm pregnant. And it's yours."

If I wasn't sharing his misery, I might've laughed at his expression. But considering I was the one with the baby in me, nothing seemed too funny anymore. He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.

"But I wore—"

"You didn't."

"And you were on—"

"I wasn't."

"So…"

"We're having a baby."

"But what about—"

"I'm not getting an abortion, Dylan. Don't you know it already has fingers and toes and fingernails and stuff? It's already alive! Do _you_ want to kill a baby?"

"I—I guess not…" He frowned more deeply and started pacing the length of the hallway. He groaned and banged his fist against a locker. "My parents are going to _kill_ me!"

I almost smacked him then. Maybe it was just the hormones talking, but I was furious. "You think _your_ parents are going to kill you? How about being the girl here? Y'know, the one with the _thing_ growing inside her and the unbearable pain to look forward to? You have it easy!"

He shook his head. "You don't get it, Stella. My parents might literally kill me for this one."

I couldn't be around him anymore. Like I said, he's insufferable. "We'll be talking, I'm sure. Tell your parents, and I'll tell mine." I turned on my heel and left the hallway.

"What is it, darling? I have a manicure appointment in fifteen minutes."

I rolled my eyes. It was always about her first. "Mom, this is really important. Ca—can you sit down?"

"Stella, I really need to go—"

"_Mom!_" I was on the verge of tears now. Didn't she understand how difficult my life had become? And all just because of one stupid mistake. Life was just so unfair.

"Stella, come on already! Out with it—"

"Mom, I'm pregnant."

For once in her life, my mother had no words.

She didn't kick me out or anything. She said she would "always be there for me" and some other crap like that. But she wanted to figure out how it would work for me and Dylan to work together with this baby. I told her I needed some time to write my English essay and study for a biology test, so she left me alone.

I got a call from Dylan at about seven thirty, but I was still mad enough that I ignored him. Then someone knocked on the door. It was pretty late, like nine o'clock or something, so I couldn't figure out who could be coming to the house. I ignored it until I heard someone yelling.

"Stella! Stella! STELLA! STELLAAAAA!"

When I finally opened it, Dylan was standing there with a duffel bag. He spoke.

"I _told_ you that I was gonna be in trouble. They kicked me out, Stella. They basically disowned me on the spot! What do I do?"

When the father of your child comes to you asking for a place to stay, you can't really say no. So the arrangement began: as long as he helped, (with the house, with the baby, etc.) he could stay.

Seven months went by in a flash. They were filled with crying, eating, and sometimes cooperation between Dylan and myself. On May 27th, I went through the most painful experience of my life. Labor was hell, but eventually Darren Christopher Stradlater was born. His fussiness and almost constant crying for the first four months of his life caused tension in the house. My mother told us that now we had both graduated high school, and we had this child together, we needed to get married or leave the house. So, we went to the courthouse and legally married. It was nothing, really. It seemed like nothing had changed at all.

Then Dylan became less and less helpful, and increasingly moody and needy. Fast-forward five years, past the diapers, and the spit-up, and the lack of sleep, and the walking and talking, and the first day of daycare, and all of that.

Dylan came home from work drunk. And not just tipsy. So drunk he could hardly see the stairs as he fell up them. So drunk he couldn't speak. So drunk that I hid five-year-old Darren in his room and locked the door to protect him. So drunk that he left a mark when he hit me.

I was done with him by then. He apologized and apologized, and said he wouldn't do it again, and then would come home two nights later completely smashed.

I threw him out. I legally divorced him. I went to court and prevented him from seeing our son anymore. I found out he had picked up a drug habit to supplement his alcoholism.

I also saw him for the last time when they lowered his body into the ground at his funeral. He overdosed on cocaine, and I wasn't even surprised.

And that's where I am now. A twenty-five-year-old divorcee with a dead ex-husband, an eight-year-old, a high school diploma, and a lifetime full of regrets. Dylan Stradlater was always a tough guy, a hotshot. And I fell for his whole act.

You would never _believe_ who I saw in town the other day. It was that Holden Catfield kid, Dylan's old roommate. Boy, was he a weird one in high school. Always sort of quiet, but you could tell he was really smart at English and stuff 'cause he always wrote Dylan's compositions. He still flunked out somehow.

Anyway, I saw him on the sidewalk with some pretty little blond bitch dangling off his arm, laughing and looking like she had won the freaking lottery. He looked well dressed and pretty rich and successful. And she didn't look like a bitter single mother who screwed up her life in high school.

I guess sometimes, the hotshots don't win.


End file.
